


Love in the Time of COVID-19

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras POV, Get-Together Fic, I was literally being evacuated from the country while I wrote this, M/M, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, communal living, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Enjolras is the first person to greet Grantaire when he returns from his six-month stint in Italy.  He has no idea where they stand after their last conversation--And that's when quarantine begins.Warnings:blood mention, hospital
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 279





	Love in the Time of COVID-19

**Author's Note:**

> [As promised!](https://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com/post/612627025202757632/i-have-had-to-resort-to-actually-making-an-outline)
> 
> Disclaimer, I did have to look up what "self-quarantine" meant before I started writing because I had been faking knowing what it meant for too long. Everything else has been gleaned from tumblr and reddit (but tbh I gleaned A LOT).

“Anyone home?”

The voice is almost jarring after nearly six months of only having heard it over staticky speakers, but it is unmistakably Grantaire’s. Despite the fact that Enjolras’s heartrate is pounding in his ears and he can feel his face growing hot, he keeps his movements careful and measured as he rises from his bed to approach the foyer.

It’s somehow more and less real to see Grantaire, _the_ Grantaire from all of the instagram updates and travel blog entries and snippets of others’ facetimes, standing in front of the door with his headphones dangling from one ear and his duffle slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras smiles as he approaches, hoping his feelings aren’t painted too plainly on his face. They haven’t spoken since the going-away party last August, and Enjolras isn’t certain where they stand.

“Hey,” the dark-haired man greets in kind, exchanging chaste bissous. “I trust a minimum level of chaos was maintained in my absence?”

It certainly was: Jehan got really into 80s aesthetic, Bahorel found a bus that he insists will be their new Liberté (impossible), and between their entire household they have paid no fewer than eight visits to the emergency room.

Still, it’s hard to match Grantaire’s specific brand of chaos. “We certainly did our best. How was Italy?”

“Grantaire?” interrupts a voice cautiously from the kitchen. Enjolras doesn’t need to turn to know exactly who it is.

“Joly!” cheers Grantaire enthusiastically, dropping his duffle to the tiled floor with a concerning crash.

“Stay back, Slut!” cries their friend, jumping into the middle of the entryway. Giant yellow gloves reach up past their elbows, a medical mask obscures their face, and in front of them they wield a bottle of disinfectant like a weapon.

“Okay, okay, what’s all this about?” Grantaire chuckles nervously, holding his hands up and slowly backing away.

“It’s the virus that’s been going around Asia. They started following it when that liner landed in Japan.”

“My _baba_ could have gotten sick!” 

“She could have,” Enjolras acquiesces. “I apologize for trivializing your concern.” 

“Especially when it’s already spread to Italy!”

“Joly,” Grantaire begins gently, holding out his hands palm-up, “I’m feeling fine: no fever, stuffiness, aches, or pains of any kind.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a carrier. Do you know the incubation period on COVID-19?”

“Do you?” challenges Grantaire with a grin.

“No,” they answer, voice simultaneously indignant and smiling. On reflection, Grantaire is probably the first one to ask since Joly started this panic. “But neither does anyone else!”

“Joly,” Enjolras says imploringly, “can we at least let Grantaire in the door before we start interrogating him about his health?”

“No!” the med student doubles down. “Who knows what he might have encountered? He can’t be allowed to infect our entire household, he needs to be put into self-quarantine immediately!”

“What?”

“Joly—”

“And you!” they continue, now aiming the disinfectant in Enjolras’s direction. “Have you had any physical contact with Patient X since he arrived?”

“Is ‘Patient X’ really—”

“Actually, I kind of like it. Can ‘Patient X’ go to his room now?”

“Don’t move!" they cry, disinfectant training back on Grantaire with renewed vigor. "I’ll not have you unnecessarily infecting other rooms of this house before this line of questioning is over.”

“Whatever you say, but I need a shower.”

“Enjolras!” they repeat. “Answer the question!”

“We did bissous, if that’s what you—”

“Then you could be at risk too!”

“Joly, I—”

“Both of you, Enjolras’s room!”

White panic grips him. “Is that really—”

“Grantaire doesn’t have a private bath anyway, and he’s already packed.”

“I really don’t think Enjolras—”

“I don’t wanna hear it! There are too many disasters going on in the world right now for you to be putting me through this.”

“Bossuet already told us his family is—”

“And do you want to stress his _Yai_ and my _Baba_ any further by forcing not only us but also the rest of this household to take unnecessary health risks?” They fix Grantaire and Enjolras with narrowed eyes before nodding toward Enjolras’s bedroom. “I’ll let everyone know to avoid the front room until I’m finished cleaning.”

**Day 1**

It’s not that Enjolras hasn’t been counting down the days until he would have an opportunity to spend time with Grantaire, but he’d rather been hoping it would be because Grantaire wanted to and also that his room might be slightly tidier if such a call for change of setting did arise.

“Um, let me just.” He should be helping with Grantaire’s things, but the half of his full-sized bed that is usually free is currently covered entirely with a spread of textbooks and documents that his desk hadn’t been up to holding, the pile of clean clothes that had once been there scattered gracelessly across the floor. His room holds nothing truly incriminating, but having someone who isn’t Courfeyrac or Combeferre there is nerve-wracking enough. “You said you needed a shower?”

“Yeah, but I—” Grantaire’s throat clears awkwardly. “I don’t have a towel, and all my clothes are dirty.”

That does present a problem: they’re of a similar height, but where Enjolras has always been lean and slight Grantaire is stocky and built. Even Enjolras’s pajama pants would probably be too tight on Grantaire, a train of thought that leaves him probably not too pink as his mouth tightens, nodding in unspoken understanding. “Let’s try texting someone: maybe they can talk Joly down from this, or at least they can do your laundry. I should have a spare towel, if nothing else.”

 _If nothing else._ This is going to be a very long quarantine indeed.

By the time Enjolras is finished cleaning his room and putting away his clothes, Grantaire has finally gotten someone on the phone.

“Yeah, I get that, but—no, sure, but— _you know damned well why not._ Fine. No. You’re the worst, and I hate you. See you soon.” Grantaire’s phone is tapped with a sigh.

The answer is evident before he asks, but it’s better than waiting in silence. “Any luck?” 

“Whole house took a vote, we’re under quarantine for three days.”

“Three days?” That’s two days longer than Enjolras had been counting on. 

“‘Subject to extension,’” the other man quotes. 

“Are they at least going to handle your laundry?”

Another heavy sigh. “The detergent and fabric softener are gonna be up as soon as someone’s free.”

Detergent and softener? “What are they going to have you do with those?”

“Laundry, presumably.”

The implications finally dawn on him. “In here?”

Grantaire slumps against the door. “I would assume the bathtub, though I can appreciate a lofty goal.”

“How will you dry them?”

Grantaire’s huff sounds exasperated. “Hangers? I dunno, Enjolras, how did people used to do their laundry before the dawn of dryers?”

This is ridiculous. This is _ridiculous._

His phone is still charging at his bedside, and he opens their chat to find over one hundred unread texts. Enjolras skims all of them before launching into his response.

[15.45] **You:** this is ridiculous  
[15.46] **You:** coronavirus is hardly a threat to anyone who isnt immunocompromised or elderly  
[15.46] **You:** nd it certainly isnt enough of a threat to warrant locking 2 adults together 4 3 days  
[15.46] **You:** esp when 1 of those adults hasnt been here 4 6 months  
[15.47] **You:** is this rly how u welcome back ur friend  
[15.47] **You:** locking him away  
[15.47] **You:** making him handwash his laundry in a bathtub  
[15.48] **You:** not even saying hello  
[15.48] **Jean Grantaire:** I’ve gotta say you’re much more eloquent in-person

“Grantaire,” he hisses, “what are you doing?”

“You remember that Muse is immunocompromised, right? And Gav, if he comes to visit.”

He hadn’t.

[15.49] **You:** fine.  
[15.49] **You:** but u all will need to prepare our food  
[15.50] **You:** nd i hate asparagus  
[15.51] **Jean Bahorel:** I can forward-roll over that bar

Grantaire snorts as the last text comes in before pulling himself to his feet. 

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom. If I want something mostly-dry to sleep in, I’d better get the water going now.”

It makes sense, but it still isn’t something Enjolras wants to dwell on. “Okay. Well, there should be a blow dryer under the sink,” he tells Grantaire as the man drags his duffle out of the room.

“Ah, just like our forefathers used to do in the olden days.” The sound of Grantaire’s bag unzipping fills the empty space between them. “By the way, can you let Baz knows he owes me for bet #18?”

Enjolras isn’t sure if he’s more concerned over whatever ‘bet #18’ is or the fact that Grantaire evidently has at least 17 other ongoing bets. Nevertheless, he does inform their housemate.

[15.54] **Jean Bahorel:** Goddammit  
[15.55] **Jean Bahorel:** Does he want that in cash or candy?

At 7 o’clock Joly appears wearing a proper gas mask with two plates of veggie stirfry and a canvas bag of chocolate bars.

**Day 2**

It’s not that Enjolras had forgotten the gut-curdling look of utter shock when Grantaire had realized at 9 the previous night that he would also have to sleep there, but being quarantined to one’s room for three days is honestly not the first thing that comes to mind when his alarm goes off at 7:30 the following morning.

“Jesus Enj, a little privacy?”

The declaration startles him enough that he almost apologizes before remembering that he’s not the one sleeping in someone’s bathtub and, by extension, interrupting what was about to be someone’s first piss of the day. “Yes, would you mind?”

“Your tub leaves much to be desired,” Grantaire informs him, several joints audibly cracking as he lifts himself out.

“There was half a bed available.”

“One does not negate the other.”

It really does, but Enjolras is too tired to have this conversation. “Please leave me to pee in peace.”

Disgruntled though he may be, Grantaire does abandon the tub, allowing Enjolras his free reign. 

“So, you never told me how Italy was,” Enjolras says once he exits the bathroom. A change of clothes hadn’t been the first thing on his mind when he’d stumbled out of bed that morning; nevertheless, his towel remains in its steadfast place, and it’s not the first time the other man has had the opportunity to see his surgical scars, so he’s really not sure why Grantaire is staring. (He knows why he’d _like_ Grantaire to be staring, but between last night and the preceding six months' radio silence Enjolras isn’t optimistic.) 

He waits until he’s collected his clothing for the day from where he’d stashed them yesterday to repeat, “Italy?”

“Oh, uh. Right. Well.” A hands tugs back through Grantaire’s hair as he stalls once again, and Enjolras tries not to huff as he returns to the bathroom to change.

“I followed your blog, of course—”

 _“Of course,”_ comes Grantaire’s voice, small from the other room.

“—but I assume that that was a rather idealized version of events?”

There’s a long pause, and Enjolras almost assumes that Grantaire has decided to forego formalities and is fully ignoring him before the response finally comes. “I mean, not really. I went places, I drew things. Hit up some monuments, talked with people: nothing special.”

It’s a lie, and Enjolras knows it’s a lie because he’d overheard Grantaire excitedly telling Bossuet about visiting the temples of his personal gods and the amazing adventure he’d been able to go on with a group of people he’d met at one of his hostels and how inspiring everything around him was. If he doesn’t want to share that with Enjolras, though, it’s up to him: it’s not as though their last proper conversation had lent itself to…how had Courfeyrac put it? ‘Cordial future relations’? 

‘Friendship.’ Right. That’s what it was.

It’s barely eight with an entire day and a half ahead of them, so Enjolras swallows his dignity and forces a smile. “Well, as long as you enjoyed it.”

By the time dinner arrives and is eaten (Chinese takeaway—they’re assured that they can keep the chopsticks and boxes, and at least Bahorel seemed amused by the irony in the selection), Grantaire and he have exchanged exactly five more words.

(“I’ll get it.” 

“Thank you.”)

There has been work to keep Enjolras busy the majority of the day, but it doesn’t make being in the same proximity as Grantaire without any noise but for the occasional snort at his phone any less unnerving or wholly unnatural. Enjolras is fairly certain that on the day of his birth Grantaire was born rambling rhapsodic and never stopped since—that is, until yesterday.

“So,” he starts when Grantaire exits the bathroom from his evening shower, “what have you been working on all day?”

Even already in his sleep clothes and running a towel over still-damp hair, Grantaire smells sharp and fresh, the scent of whatever he’d had leftover from travelling clinging to him like petrichor to blacktop after a summer rain. It’s dizzying and intoxicating, and Enjolras needs to turn away to catch his breath.

“Oh, um. Not much. Little drawing, but uh. Mostly watching tiktok.”

“Tiktok?” 

“Yeah, it’s uh. Like Vine?” The towel drops to Grantaire’s shoulders, and Enjolras nods like he has more than the vaguest idea of what Vine is. “Anyway, figure as long as we’re under quarantine I may as well take advantage of the memes that are being borne of our suffering.”

 _Suffering._ Well, if there was any doubt on the current state of Grantaire’s feelings for Enjolras, it is now absolved.

“Speaking of suffering,” Grantaire continues, picking up the pillow and comforter Bossuet had dropped off yesterday afternoon, “tub should be mostly dry by now.”

“You still really don’t have to—”

“It’s cool,” Grantaire assures. “Really, no big deal. I like it better this way.”

Enjolras’s throat tightens as he forces a smile. “Right. Well, if you change your mind, the option remains.”

“Thanks, Champ.”

_One day more._

**Day 3**

Today Enjolras has the wherewithal to knock before entering his own bathroom. Today it also occurs to him to bring a change of clothing, but seeing as their three-day reign of misery ends this evening, he decides that his usual morning shower can probably be put on-hold for a couple of hours. 

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec.”

Given the fact that he was barely awake and preparing to use the facilities, Enjolras hadn’t had much of a chance to get a look at Grantaire yesterday. Now that he does, he sees that the man has unfairly charming bedhead, even if he’s still very obviously sleep-rumpled and grumpy.

Not that any of this is useful to Enjolras to observe. It’s more the unfortunate byproduct of quarantine with someone who quite evidently does not reciprocate his affections.

“All yours,” Grantaire tells him, pushing into the bedroom.

What follows the rest of the morning is nothing new: an unspoken accord has been made. They stay in their respective pajamas on their respective sides of the room with their respective work, neither making any effort to communicate with the other. It only needs to take them through to three o’clock, after which point the rest of the house will have no reason not to let them out.

Today Cosette delivers their lunch accompanied by Éponine. It’s remarkable only in that it’s the first time two people have been at their door.

“What’s our final meal? Italian?” jokes Grantaire. 

“Ram-Don, actually.” Cosette is only barely visible through the partially-opened doorway as she passes Grantaire the tupperware. “So, I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with the news—”

“In this economy? Not remotely.”

The joke pinches in Enjolras’s chest: it’s exactly the Grantaire-brand humor he’s been missing these past few days, but it’s not meant for him to hear. He feels like a trespasser in his own room violating Grantaire’s private moment of camaraderie. 

“Yeah, well, so, as it would turn out—”

“The virus has a long-as-shit incubation period,” Éponine interrupts gruffly. “They finally have test kits, and you’re both eligible. We already voted, and you’re either here two weeks or until the results are in”

The bottom drops out from Enjolras’s stomach as Grantaire repeats in disbelief, _“Two weeks?”_

“Or until the results are in,” Éponine repeats.

“How long will that take?”

Cosette makes the humming sound that usually means she’s also chewing her lip. “Three or four days? Joly won’t be able to do it until tomorrow, though.”

Grantaire’s head is already shaking. “That’s still a week,” he tells her, voice laden with tired despair.

“At first I thought it was overkill too,” Cosette commiserates, “but the number of cases has been rising rapidly, and with Papa—”

“It’s fine,” the man backtracks, tone making an abrupt turn to apologetic. “It’s no big deal. You don’t need to defend wanting to, like, not be sick.”

“We are sorry, though.”

“Yo, y’all are the ones forking over the cash to feed us, I’m not complaining.”

“You hear that, Angelface?” Éponine calls into the room.

“Yes.”

“Any complaints?”

None that will do him any good. “No.” 

“Good. Also, call your extra ligaments: they’re getting nervous not being able to see your face, and none of us trust them not to spread your germs.”

Grantaire looks between them quizzically. “I’m sure Combef—”

“No, she’s right,” Enjolras interrupts, pushing himself upright. “Ferre’s just as likely to respect protocol as he is to break me out or attempt his own research. I’ll call them after this.”

“We’re understood then?” Éponine checks. She’s not visible from where he sits, but he knows the question is for both of them.

“Understood.”

“Clear as crystal,” adds Grantaire with a grimace.

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable!” Cosette insists.

“Or don’t.”

“Sure thing,” Grantaire tells them, finally turning to place the bowls on Enjolras’s desk. The door is kicked shut as soon as the women take their leave, and his temporary roommate sighs heavily. “Well, that’s not ideal.”

Enjolras shrugs, hoping it comes across unaffected before pushing himself to his feet. “I think I’ll be taking my shower now, then.”

“Mind if I take the bed this time?”

An eyebrow is raised at the freshly-showered man. “I’m not moving to the bath, if that’s what you mean.”

A sigh escapes Grantaire as he reaches the corner of his towel up to dry his face. “If I have to do a week in your janky-ass tub I’m gonna get permanent spinal damage. I’m an edge-sleeper, you’ll barely know I’m there.”

Enjolras is not, but now doesn’t seem like the time to volunteer this information. “As long as you don’t mind, I don’t mind. In any case, it’ll be refreshing not to have to ask permission to use my own toilet.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t a fan either.”

The comment had been intended as a joke, but apparently they’ve lost the little progress they had made there before Grantaire’s departure as well. It makes Enjolras want to yank his hair and scream, but instead he does his best to maintain his composure, reaction minimized to a sigh. “Good night, Grantaire.”

**Day 4**

Apparently Grantaire normally rises before Enjolras—whether this is a pre-existing condition or a side effect of having lived in a different time zone for several months is beyond him. It doesn’t matter because right now he is being startled awake before his alarm by the sound of a door opening and the overwhelming smell of something very familiar.

He must make some sound indicating that he’s awake because, through the narrow gap between his eyelids, he sees Grantaire freeze. “Shit, sorry for waking you.”

“Mm, it’s no problem,” Enjolras mumbles, brain still foggy with sleep. There’s something significant about the smell, what is it?

“Oh, um. I had to use your soap, turns out travel-size doesn’t get you far in quarantine. Hope that’s okay.”

It is equal parts more than ‘okay’ and absolutely unforgivable, and Enjolras is still too groggy to remember which one is the non-guilty one to feel.

“I’ll let you get back to sleep then.”

Making a sound he hopes comes across as assent, Enjolras reburies his face into his pillow and falls back into a shallow sleep.

“Fucking _Khaos,_ I could use a drink.”

Enjolras looks up from where he’s been working at his desk, surprised: it’s the first thing Grantaire has volunteered unprompted in their entire quarantine; he’d been talkative enough that morning when Joly had stopped by to collect cell samples, but in the hours that have passed since then the room has been a den of silence.

Given the subject matter, perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’s not sure he’s ever seen Grantaire go more than a day without one, and it’s now been four. The man himself is propped up against the headboard of the bed on the opposite side of the room from Enjolras, head against the wall and expression pinched in either discomfort or pain.

“I’m sure you could text Bossuet or someone else in the house.” Their liquor cabinet is usually well-stocked, and the other man knows as well as Enjolras that there’s usually a couple of beers and ciders in the fridge.

“That’s not—nevermind.”

Enjolras frowns. “Is something the matter?”

Grantaire’s phone flops onto the bed, accompanied by an exasperated sigh. “Everyone’s favorite Russian leader just more or less declared himself dictator for life, end-to-end encryption is on the chopping block again, east Africa’s got fucking _locusts,_ and the news has basically been buried under this corona panic.” He coughs into his shirt, a brief sniffle following. “S’fucking ridiculous.”

That certainly is A Matter. Nodding, Enjolras attempts to school his expression to something neutral. “Well, I don’t keep anything in here, but—”

“It’s really fine, I’ll don’t need it.”

“Courf is probably home, I c—”

“I don’t. Want. The drink. I was joking.” Grantaire’s hands run over his face as an exasperated sigh is released. “Sweet Athena.”

“Are you sure?” Enjolras would like to get at least one thing right in this ordeal. “I know I don’t make the best company, but you could—”

“I quit, Enjolras. I quit, okay? I don’t want to drink, it’s just fucking habit. Psychosomatic, or whatever.”

Enjolras blinks. “You quit?”

“In Italy, yeah. Something like four months clean now.”

Echoes of a conversation had on a balmy night six months ago reverberate in his mind, and Enjolras fights back a cringe. “It’s not—is it because—”

“It was because I wanted to quit. Gods, Apollo, can you let it go? Please?” Grantaire’s mouth is twisted in an uncomfortable grimace, arms clutched around himself, and Enjolras feels suddenly very selfish for ever having assumed it had anything to do with him.

“Of course, my apologies. And, uh.” Enjolras’s eyes fall to the expanse of comforter between them. “Congratulations.”

There’s a long pause before an answer finally comes. “Thanks.” 

**Day 5**

After four days of virtually uninterrupted work, even Enjolras is running out of things to do. The outside world seems to be slowing down in the face of the infection, and he has finally been reduced to checking out the memes that have sprung from the international crisis.

Many of them are rather off-color, and he sees enough references to the hoarding of goods that he sends a text to the rest of the household to assure that they have not purchased more than their fair share of sanitary products. (It’s a tough call with thirteen to a house, but he feels somewhat better knowing that Bahorel and Cosette are furious couponers and likely stocked up before the rush on toilet paper began.)

Still, it had only been a matter of time before one was found that pushed Enjolras past the point of brief snorts and into a full-on laugh. The sound earns a strange look from Grantaire, who has been doing something studiously on his drawing pad for the past hour. Shaking his head, Enjolras downloads the image before sending it to Grantaire.

[10.45] **Jean Grantaire:** Gods, you laugh at memes out loud?  
[10.45] **Jean Grantaire:** What a normie  
[10.46] **Jean Grantaire:** Enjoy Euphrosyne’s caress in silence like the rest of us

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at the man before throwing a pillow at him. “Simp,” he accuses with a grin.

“That is not how you use that!”

Thus why he said it. “What are you, some new-age hipster? Let people enjoy things!”

“I will cling to cringe-culture ‘til my dying day. _Vive la Culture Cringe!”_

“You are insufferable,” Enjolras laughs before he can think better of it. Panic seizes him as he checks for Grantaire’s reaction—he’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to joke like that anymore.

Either Grantaire doesn’t notice or has decided to give Enjolras a pass this time: whatever the reason, his pure, unadulterated laughter fills the four walls of the room, and for the first time this week Enjolras begins to feel optimistic about their friendship.

Apparently his time in Italy has made Grantaire finicky over air quality, and tonight he has decided to take his stand.

“I’m telling you, it’s stuffy in here!”

“And I’m telling you, the whole house is ventilated! There is no reason for us to keep the windows open all night and let the chill make us actually sick.”

“I already have a sore throat from all of this recycled, dusty-ass air! Are you going to tell me that, just because you personally are not experiencing a problem, it doesn’t exist?” Grantaire’s arms cross as though this is a trump card.

He forgets that it is still Enjolras’s room. “Ask Joly for an air purifier tomorrow: it’s meant to hit freezing tonight, and we do not have the blankets to intentionally submit ourselves to such temperatures.”

“Fine,” Grantaire sniffs petulantly, “but if I catch the flu and die, it’s on you.”

“It’s on the entire household for quarantining us.”

“Not untrue.”

“Go to bed.”

The past nights have been easy to fall asleep, his mind exhausted from hours and hours of work. Today has been spent lounging and exchanging memes with his unwilling partner-in-quarantine, though, and his mind is abuzz with unanswered questions.

“Grantaire? Are you awake?”

No answer comes at first, and Enjolras is ready to assume that Grantaire has already nodded off when— “Something up?”

The darkness of the room is a blessing as he tries to arrange his thoughts into something cohesive. “I’m sorry. For what I said back in August.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I will. It obviously hurt you, and—”

And the look on Grantaire’s face that night, the tight smile and shrug followed by a swig of beer before turning to leave the balcony and re-enter the party is something that hasn’t left Enjolras in six months.

“—and it’s not how one should react to a love confession. Er, like-confession. And I’m sorry”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the bed followed by the sound of shifting blankets. “Look, don’t beat yourself up over it. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“I did, though!” Enjolras insists. “No one is, is—”

“‘A collection of pop culture references, friends’ interests, and alcoholism’?” Grantaire quotes dryly. Shame pools in Enjolras’s stomach because hearing the words echoed back now, he can see how anyone might have missed what he was trying to say, but the other man gives a self-deprecatory chuckle. “I mean, if ever there was someone who fit the bill, it was probably me.”

“But you’re not!”

 _“Now_ I’m not,” corrects Grantaire. “I had already suspected it for a long time, but you’re the only person who was willing to say it to my face. Like, I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt: it did. But it also came right before this big change in my life, y’know? This chance to kinda figure out who I am without all of the crutches and props to hide behind. I had six months to strip myself bare and build myself back up again, and I finally like who I am. So, like. What I’m trying to say is, ‘thanks.’ Probably wouldn’t have gotten here without you.”

“So…” The new information turns over in his head. “You don’t hate me?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

The benefits of the dark still outweigh turning on a light, but not by much. “We have been in quarantine for five days, and today is the first time we’ve been able to have a conversation without it feeling like pulling teeth for every word.” 

“Ah. Yeah, I…yeah.” Another sigh comes. “I mean, no offense, but those sentiments aren’t really that of someone who is a fan of you? Like, I know you said you wanted to like me or could like me or whatever, but given that it was followed by ‘but you’re not a whole person and also I don’t know who you are under the bullshit,’ the meaning was kinda negated.”

“You…” It takes a moment for Enjolras’s thoughts to catch up to him. “You thought I was saying it to be polite.”

“Well, yeah. To be honest, the whole exchange was pretty awkward, so I was pretty much under the impression that you would rather never interact with me again.”

“I told you I followed your blog.” His brows furrow as he frowns. “I liked your instagram posts.”

“So does my _avó,_ with help. So does my third-grade teacher. I wasn’t exactly going to get my hopes up that you wanted to ever see me again based on that alone.” More moving of fabric. “And if you did, I was hoping I might be able to actually make a good impression.”

“You have.”

“I was musty and fresh off of a plane, and now I’ve been an anti-social git for five days.”

“Four,” Enjolras corrects. “You were social today. And I liked talking with you.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Well. That’s good, then. I enjoyed talking with you too.”

There’s more that Enjolras wants to say, wants to ask, but with the tension that’s been gripping his chest for the past five days (six months, really) finally released, he feels his eyelids growing heavy and sleep’s grip on him strengthening. “Good night, Grantaire.”

“‘Night, Enj.”

**Day 6**

Joly arrives with their food today. “Homemade sushi,” they announce, “and your daily check-in. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad,” Grantaire tells them, grinning as he places the rolls on the desk before moving to sit at the foot of the bed. “Dry cough, sore throat, fever. Bit light-headed, do you think I should see a doctor?”

Joly looks rather like they would smack Grantaire over the back of the head if they could reach. “Is the air purifier helping your throat, at least?”

“Too soon to say,” he answers, dropping the act, “but it seems to be.”

“That’s good. Enjolras?”

“Restless, but otherwise robust.”

“Excellent. Your results should be in tomorrow, just hang in there a little longer.”

Tomorrow.

It’s strange, because Enjolras has known that their time in quarantine was coming to a close, but now that it’s upon them the prospect feels almost unreal. Being able to run his own errands unassisted? Going on walks? Leaving his own room?

He should be elated—he _is_ elated—but his thoughts turn to his tentative friendship with his Grantaire, now chattering excitedly about something he must have seen online earlier. Breathing room is great, of course it is, but without the confines of quarantine forcing them together what will become of them? Will they return to their routine of old, of barely acknowledging one another when they cross paths and only reaching out for the most essential of correspondences? 

It seems wildly unlikely now that they’ve finally cleared the air between them, but one week has made Enjolras selfish, and he is no longer satisfied with the idea of only being friends if they can be more.

“Grantaire?” he says while they eat. Grantaire is sniffling and coughing fiercely, laughing through the tears of having taken a far too confident bite of wasabi moments prior.

It’s another minute before he recovers enough to speak, but Enjolras finds he doesn’t mind. “Yeah?”

“My, erm.” He’d been rehearsing this conversation in his head all afternoon, but the bathroom walls are too thin to have had the opportunity to practice at any volume louder than just under his breath. “During the going-away party, on the balcony—”

“Gods, not this again.” Still wiping away at his runny nose, Grantaire shakes his head. “I told you, we can forget it ever hap—”

“I don’t want to forget,” he rushes out in one breath. Grantaire’s expression is inquisitive, but he doesn’t interrupt, so Enjolras continues. “If your feelings have changed, I understand and respect that, but I. I was right, I do like you, and I would really like for us to spend more time together, in a non-quarantine setting.”

Grantaire’s look is blank, and Enjolras forces himself to maintain his composure as he carefully spears another California roll (using chopsticks in the traditional sense had not been working out for him, and Grantaire has given him a pass).

“I. Er. Hmm.” It’s not very conclusive for as long of a pause as it’s been, and it suddenly occurs to him that Grantaire may even have a partner he’d assumed would be too awkward to mention to Enjolras. “Okay, so like, here’s the thing.

“A big part of getting my shit together was trying to, like. Live for me. And not…for you.” Grantaire reaches up to scratch at his cheek. “Every step was a very conscious thing to not be doing it for your attention and genuinely want to do it for me. Even the drinking, I relapsed about a month in because I had this thing where I—well, nevermind, not the point. 

"What I'm trying to say is, I want to. Fuck, I want to so badly it hurts. But I’m not sure I can? Because then, like, what if this was all some kind of subconscious long-game, right? I really like who I am right now—like, a lot. And if we end up breaking up or whatever, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold onto that.”

Enjolras chews his sushi slowly, turning the information over in his head as he swallows. “You’ve made it this far, though.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re four months sober,” he counts, bobbing his chopstick with the items, “you’re maintaining an art blog, your studies are on-track: your life is full of these other things that aren’t me.”

“I mean…yeah…”

“So just make sure that you keep up with them,” Enjolras shrugs. “If your concern is your world coming down to only me, then keeping up with other people and things should help, right?”

“I guess?”

“We can have boundaries, too,” he continues. “Maybe you have some hobbies or friends that are off-limits to me, so you know that it is something that won’t be affected even if things don’t work out with us.”

“I…” The gears in Grantaire’s head are almost visibly turning. “That could work.” His features have softened to something almost like hope, and warmth bubbles in Enjolras’s chest.

“So, first thing when this quarantine is over and we’ve had our recovery space: dinner.”

“Going out to eat does sound really nice.” There’s a thoughtful gleam in his eye as he clicks the tips of his chopsticks together (show-off).

“Then it’s decided,” Enjolras declares. 

“I’ll bring the hand sanitizer.”

It’s their fourth night doing this, so it should feel rote by now, but somehow the thrill of knowing that he and Grantaire have an actual date planned only serves to heighten Enjolras’s nerves as they slide into their respective sides of the bed, room illuminated only by Enjolras’s bedside lamp.

It’s taking everything in Enjolras to keep his eyes on the ceiling and not the man beside him, so when Grantaire does speak it comes as a surprise. “You think Joly will let you wash these sheets in the communal washer/dryer?”

“Once we’re confirmed as not having the virus? If not, it’ll be on them to hand-wash the bedding for me.”

“We could probably finagle favors out of the others for a while for this.”

“We could,” Enjolras assents, “but they had the greater good at heart, and they did what they could to look after us and make us comfortable in the meantime.”

A low chuckle escapes Grantaire. “You have fun with your hammer and sickle then: next time I have laundry, I’m calling in a debt. Hand-washing clothes is a bitch.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I mean, you don’t have to, the bathtub is righ—”

“That’s quite all right, my imagination will suffice on this matter.”

The silence that follows is warm and comfortable, and Enjolras isn’t sure how much time has passed before— 

“I know we said we’re taking things slow,” Grantaire starts, “but we should probably discuss the one night stand here.”

“The what?” The statement is jarring enough that it takes a moment for his meaning to hit. “Oh, you ass,” he says, reaching over for the light.

“It was right there, I couldn’t not. Joly would never let me live it down.”

“They wouldn’t,” he agrees, “and we have very important plans that you need to survive to see.”

“I guess I do,” Grantaire muses before pausing. “But, uh…for real this time: I know we said we’d take it slow and have been doing this whole ‘five feet apart ‘cause they’re social-distancing’ thing, but would you wanna, like. Cuddle or something?”

Cuddling sounds amazing. In lieu of a verbal answer, Enjolras pulls himself across the space between them, resting his head on the man’s shoulder and tangling his leg in Grantaire’s. It feels comfortable and familiar and right.

“I might not even fall out of the bed this time,” Grantaire chuckles.

“Hm?”

“Wait, have you seriously not noticed?”

Frowning, Enjolras pulls away enough to prop himself on an elbow. “Not noticed what?” 

Illuminated only by the dim moonlight through the bedroom window, Grantaire pushes himself upright before settling back against the headboard. “You are fucking grabby in your sleep. Hugo himself would argue that hydras and chimaeras have nothing on you.” Enjolras’s expression must betray his horror, because Grantaire laughs. “It was cute but inconvenient. No idea how you didn’t hear me that first morning.”

“You actually fell out of the bed?”

“Dropped like the heads of the wealthy after your incoming social revolution. Like, you are seriously fighting your inborn nature in advocating for redistribution of wealth, and I commend you.”

“Take that back.”

“You are the 1% that controls 99% of the mattress,” Grantaire maintains, settling back into bed. “It’s insane, I literally don’t know how you do it.”

“I get warm,” complains Enjolras, nevertheless returning to his position plastered against Grantaire’s side.

“I have been waking at 6 o’clock like clockwork coated in sweat, it’s disgusting.”

“Will this be okay then? I don’t want—” He begins to pull away, but he’s held in place by Grantaire’s arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t you dare.” The grip slackens slightly. “This is my only chance to experience it guilt-free before we return to our own beds, and I’m taking advantage of it as long as you’ll consent.”

Relaxing, Enjolras allows his breathing to begin to slow. “So long as you’re comfortable.”

“I am.”

The rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest is steady beneath Enjolras’s cheek, and it isn’t long before he dozes off.

**Day 7**

Grantaire’s shirt is drenched under Enjolras when he finally wakes the next morning, but it would seem that if Grantaire has fallen out of the bed today, he has taken great care to place himself exactly as they been the previous night.

“Good morning,” Enjolras tells him, stretching his sleep-laden muscles. 

Grantaire’s phone lowers to reveal his smile. “Mornin’. Sleep well?”

“Dreamt I was drowning at sea, are you usually this hot?”

“Always,” winks Grantaire, which earns him a roll of Enjolras’s eyes. “But no, I’m not normally this disgusting in the morning, I think my body’s just adjusting to getting back from Italy. Not sure which I miss more, being able to sleep soundly or trust a meal.”

“Joly is definitely responsible for any sheet-washing that may need doing, then.”

“Good call, Chief. Now get your giant head off of my chest so I can breathe.” 

Sticking his tongue out, Enjolras unwraps himself from Grantaire, and the latter gets out of bed, immediately taking a deep dramatic breath that leaves him coughing before stripping himself of the soaked shirt. It’s a process Enjolras allows himself to watch with sleepy interest, and when he’s caught he gives a smug shrug before rolling back over onto his stomach to resume control of the other 80% of his mattress holdings. 

“I’ll wake you when I’m out, and then we can start bullying Joly over getting our results.”

“Sounds good,” Enjolras murmurs into his pillow, dozing back into a shallow sleep with the closing of the door.

A crashing sound startles him awake after what feels like seconds but was apparently fifteen minutes. “Grantaire?”

There’s no response. The water is still running, so it’s possible that the other man didn’t hear him, but Enjolras isn’t willing to risk it. “Grantaire?” he repeats, cautiously pulling himself to the edge of the bed. The door is shut, but it might not be locked, and the emergency picking mechanism is above the doorframe if he needs it. It’d be a violation of privacy, yes, but he’d be doing it as a concerned friend, not a snoop or some peeping Tom.

The door is locked, but the lock itself simple, and his breath comes shakily as he inserts the pin into the knob and hears it click open. He turns the handle quietly, opening the door slowly and trying not to cough as the steam catches him directly in the face. “Grantaire?” he repeats.

Water is splashing onto the floor, a stray limb has jostled the curtain, and Enjolras sees red.

“Joly!”

**Post-Quarantine**

Enjolras is halfway through his chapter when Grantaire finally starts. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Enjolras says, replacing his bookmark and rising from his seat. “I’ll let the nurses know, just a moment.” 

There’s one right outside the door; she thanks him before hurrying off. 

By the time he’s back in the room, Grantaire seems to have had adequate time to take in his surroundings. “It’s been a while,” he nods. “What did I do? I don’t feel like I made any regrettable life choices recently. Was it the sushi?”

“You passed out in the shower,” Enjolras informs him. “Evidently, you couldn’t breathe.”

“What can I say? You take my breath away.”

Sighing, he shakes his head. Only Grantaire—and Joly. Bossuet, probably. Definitely Bahorel, potentially Feuilly, one hundred percent Courfeyrac— 

Wow, all of his friends are terrible.

“You have a concussion, a fracture, and coronavirus.”

“Ah,” Grantaire nods. “That’s not convenient.”

“It’s not,” Enjolras agrees.

“Did you test positive too?”

“I did, but apparently I’m asymptomatic.”

“Double-trouble. You gonna be laid-up in a hospital bed too, then?”

“Back into quarantine, actually. They said I can stay since we both already have it, but I’ll be back home by tonight.”

“Guess the past week wasn’t just overreacting.”

“Guess not.”

Grantaire stares at the wall ahead of his bed. “Rain check on dinner?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” From under his chair comes a small canvas bag, which he empties an item at a time onto the bedside tray. “You’re only allowed hospital food, though I gather Joly intends to smuggle you some seasonings next time they’re in for a shift.”

“Blessings upon Joly.” A delighted smile is spreading across Grantaire’s face, and it only doubles as Enjolras removes the final items. “Please tell me those are what I think they are.”

“We’re not allowed open flames in the hospital rooms,” Enjolras tells him as he flicks on the electric candles, “and flowers might contain outside contaminants.”

“I literally already have coronavirus.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” sniffs Enjolras.

“This is absurd and perfect,” Grantaire tells him, picking up his plastic fork. “Whoever still needs to finish their game of Jumanji should definitely get on that, but in the meantime, I can work with this.” 

“That’s privileged upper class thinking that should—”

“Shhh. I am broken and ill, and we are having A Moment. Let it be.”

He tries to glare, but all it takes is one look at Grantaire’s horrified reaction to the boiled, unseasoned vegetables for the façade to break and Enjolras to begin laughing, reaching back under the chair as he does for the Adobo.

**Author's Note:**

> The moral of this story is that Joly knows best.
> 
> ThePiecesOfCait honored me with not one [but two illustrations from this fic](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/617201068464586752/if-youre-looking-for-your-quarantine-fic-fix), including the Joly aka My Favorite Part ot This Entire Fic, so please check it out!! The Joly image is also available on her RedBubble [as a sticker](https://www.redbubble.com/i/sticker/Life-in-the-Time-of-COVID-19-by-PiecesOfCait/47744706.QK27K) (as well as a bunch of other things)!
> 
> Hope you liked it! I love comments and feedback, so please either comment below or find me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Same Thing We Do Every Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229622) by [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena)




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